My Other Half
by smc1214
Summary: 10 years after the Battle of Hogwarts, a man mourns the loss of his twin brother. NOT TWINCEST


Untitled George Tragedy

May 2nd, 2008. A lone tree stands in a field. It had become rather large in the near twenty years it has been there. It was up on a hill overlooking a home. Miles away from civilization, the house was anything but normal. It was neither extravagant nor large. It leaned to one side, but was miraculously held up by some form of unseen magic. While the appearance made it obvious that the occupants were not the wealthiest of folks, they were certainly rich in family.

There were children, practically a dozen of them, running through the fields and gardens. Some of the older boys flew on broomsticks playing a game called quidditch, and a couple of the girls were picking flowers. A few of the children even tormented some garden gnomes under the supervision of an older woman with graying red hair. These kids didn't have a care in the world.

They didn't know of the horrors that took place a mere decade ago. They did not witness the hysteria, the fear. They did not watch as their friends and family perished before their eyes. They were young. They were innocent. They were naïve. Unlike their parents, they will have had a childhood.

No child should have had to live through such a traumatizing experience. Just a mere decade ago, life was so different. The world may have moved on, but who could forget that fateful day?

Now it is seen as any normal day, and many don't recall its significance. But for others, the memory of May 2nd, 1998 will always be engraved in their minds.

A man walks up the steep hill where the tree stands erect. He is still young, but his face is worn with prolonged stress and heartache. He is tall and skinny, with vibrant red hair mopped over his head. In a place where someone used to find an amused smirk lays a frown. This past decade he could be found frowning often. He used to laugh, a deep, sincere laugh that would have made any onlooker smile. Now he's quiet. Now he's careful. Now he won't open up his heart to just anyone in fear of losing them as well.

Cautiously, the man walks to the lone tree. As the sun beats down on him he wipes the sweat beads from his forehead, but he hides the fact that he also swiped away a stray tear as if the tree he is standing before will silently judge his emotional state.

After what seemed like hours, he had finally reached his destination. He is still, unsure of how to proceed. He'd done this over a dozen times before, but no matter how routine it had become, it's a task he'd rather have never performed.

Under the tree is a single stone. But this is not just some boulder placed there for a child's entertainment. It is a tombstone. Beneath the man lies his other half, his brother, his twin. Tentatively, he places his hand on the smooth rock and glides his fingers over the top.

Overwhelmed, he collapses. He can barely see past his tear stained lids, but he knows the etched writing by heart. He mumbles. It sounds like a name, but with the sobs taking over his articulation it is hard to make out.

He shouldn't be doing this. He should not be collapsed over his brother's grave. There should not be a stone under this magnificent tree. He and his twin should be working at their, no, his shop right now selling love potions for some teenage witches or prank wands for first years to try out at school.

But that is merely a fantasy, a dream. It's not reality. His twin did not live long enough to see how successful the shop had become after the war. He did not live to see his siblings grow, marry, and have children. He did not live long enough to fall in love and live a happy life. He had not seen how lighthearted the world had become after an entire life of fear. He never lived in a world that was safe, happy, care free. The reality was that his brother, his own twin, his partner in crime, his other half, the best friend he ever, or would ever have, is dead. And he has been dead for ten years today.

"Damn it!" he screeches, trying to choke back the flowing tears, "why wasn't it me?" He pounds the earth below him with his clenched fist. For too many a year he had asked himself this same question.

"You shouldn't be buried here, mate," he starts, "we should be laying here under this tree together like old times." The man crosses his legs in front of the grave, a faint smile beginning to form on his lips. "We should be planning our next attack on our dear 'Head Boy' of a brother." He chuckles to himself at the memory.

He comes back to his senses though, sighing. "That was years ago…" he looks to the ground downcast, "we should be discussing the shop. What new invention you're going to come up with, our wives, our children-" He stopped short. His brother would never grow up to have a family or kids. He had to learn to do that for the both of them. "You'd have been a great father, you know?" he laughs, almost heartily but not fully into it, "you'd have been an even better Uncle."

He looks up and eyes the tree he was sitting under. "This tree grew a lot huh? Remember when we planted it?" he allowed his head to fall back against the trunk as his eyes closed picturing the memory. "Mum had just yelled at us for pushing Ron off his broom while playing quidditch. We got so mad at her that we stole her seeds from her shed and ran up the hill. Little did we know it would create this!" He reopens his eyes and smiles. "We made something together, you and I. We were ten years old then though…before school, before joining the Order, before I lost my ear," he subconsciously patted the flat side of his head, "before-" and he stops himself, unable to say it.

He sighs, gets up from his position and kneels in front of the stone studying it, as if deep in prayer.

"Ten years, it's so long ago yet I still remember that day perfectly." He glances at his family's home for a moment and takes in the scenery before him. Underneath the hill he sees all of his nieces and nephews playing with one another, one large happy family. His brother's children should have been a part of that too. "He's growing up you know, almost four now."

With this he breaks down and allows the threatening tears to fall. "It's so damn hard, Fred…so damn hard. Every time I look in a mirror I think it's you. Every morning for a brief moment I think you're going to jump out from behind me like its some prank but...I know better." He turns his attention back to the stone. "I wonder, I wonder every day about what would have become of you. What you'd look like, who you'd marry, how many kids you'd have, if we'd still be as close as we were-" The tears spilled over, cascading down his face unable to control his emotions any longer.

"He looks just like you, Fred does." He states wiping his cheeks trying to impose some dignity. "I sometimes wonder if he'll end up like us. Maybe Peeves will teach him some tricks of ours." He laughs, choking on his tears. "I wish you could see him, you'd be so proud. He asks about you, you know?" He smiles widely, "'Uncle Fred' this and 'Uncle Fred' that…" his smile softens as he stares down at his brothers grave. "He loves you. You would've loved him too."

From behind him a woman walks up the hill holding the hand of a young boy. The woman is slim except for her rather large stomach, alerting the world the arrival of her child is soon to come. She has dark skin and hair, but soft features. She is young, like the man, but not as worn. The boy is almost a carbon copy of the man. He has thick red hair wisped across his forehead, his face covered in numerous freckles.

Spotting the man, the boy lets go of his mother's hand and races up the hill.

"Daddy, Daddy!" The man looks up just in time as his son leaps into his arms and sits gingerly on his lap. The man laughs, content, and rests his chin on the boys head and hugs him with all his might, releasing his tension. This is the reason he survived: to get married, to have a child, more specifically the child sitting in his arms right now and another on the way.

"How's Uncle Freddie doing, Daddy?" the boy, who's named after his infamous Uncle, asked.

The father looks down at him, kisses his forehead, and replies, "He's great, Fred. He's looking down on you right now." He looks up at the tree he and his twin planted. Just beneath the highest branch the sun breaks through the brush, allowing a ray to hit the two of them. "I just know it."

The woman comes up behind him and places a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder. He looks at her with loving eyes as she sits beside him. He snakes an arm around her waist and kisses her cheek. She sees her husband's bloodshot eyes and sweetly wipes the red hair away from his eyes.

"You okay, George?" She whispers concerned. He takes a hold of her hand and kisses it.

"Fine, Angie," George glances at his brothers' stone, "just fine." After a few peaceful moments, Angelina, with tears welling in her eyes, stands up and subconsciously rubs her protruding stomach. She kneels down, just enough until she is level with the stone. She lowers herself enough until she is able to kiss it. She looks upon the grave of her first boyfriend, her first love, and then looks upon his twin brother, her husband, the father of her children, her lover. She smiles weakly as she grabs his hand and squeezes it for reassurance.

"You ready sweetie?" she asks her son. The boy nods, and instead of going straight to his mother he bends down, kisses his father on the cheek, and engulfs him in a hug.

"I love you Daddy." Overwhelmed, George held on to his son for dear life. Through choked sobs, he was able to muster an almost incoherent, "I love you too, Fred." The double meaning not lost on him or his wife.

Angelina summoned the boy to her and they traveled down the hill silently, leaving George alone once more with his late brother.

Wiping away the tears cascading from his face, he musters up enough courage to look at the stone one final time. He gently touches the head of the stone and whispers loud enough for only the tree to hear, "I love you Freddie…" and with that the man turns on his heels and walks down the hill solemnly to catch up with his growing family.

Behind him laid the grave of a man who would not grow, who would not have a family, who would not have a future. He was a man who died too young for a noble cause with a more than promising life.

As the sun set, one could faintly make out the writing on the tombstone:

_Here lies_

_Frederick Weasley_

_April 1, 1978 – May 2, 1998_

_Son, Brother, Friend, Twin_


End file.
